Midsummer Magic

by Catherine Coulter

Frances dropped her fork. She wanted to hurl her cup of very hot tea into his face. She wanted to scream the best of her invectives at his head. She said in a low, tight voice, “It certainly seems possible. You have, after all, done your duty quite assiduously.”

  “That is quite a number of words you have strung together,” Hawk said. “It pleases me that you realize I deserve more than a nod or a shrug from you.”

  “Oh yes,” she said. “You deserve much more.”

  Hawk frowned. Her voice was flat, utterly emotionless. Didn’t the woman have a shred of sensibility? But perhaps her words had held a shred of sarcasm?

  “I am leaving in the morning.”

  “I wish you a good journey.”

  “Do not you care when I shall be back, or where I am going, for that matter?” His tone was irascible, his words perverse, and he knew it.

  “No,” she said. She began to spread the soft sweet butter on a slice of bread, concentrating to her full powers on the strokes of her knife.

  His hands clenched, and he said in a nasty voice, “I shall visit you again tonight. I wouldn’t want to be at all remiss in my duty, now, would I?”‘

  Frances felt her heart plummet to her toes. She had begun her monthly flow. Oh dear, what was she to do? It was time to attack, she knew it. The mouse couldn’t lie still for this. It was her only hope. She said very coldly, “Why do you not leave a list of eligible gentlemen who live in the neighborhood? If you have indeed not succeeded in your ... husbandly endeavors, perhaps one of them will.”

  Hawk stared at her, for a moment completely taken aback, then threw back his head and burst into laughter. “Look, Frances,” he said at last, seeing her sitting there rigid as a statue, “even if one of the gentlemen could be induced to bed you, he wouldn’t treat you with as much, ah, respect as I do. Lord, he might even expect, nay, insist on seeing your body, perhaps thrust his tongue in your mouth. You would detect that, wouldn’t you? He would, I venture to point out, even force you to touch him. A ghastly prospect, wouldn’t you say? All that disgusting hair?”

  It was difficult, but Frances maintained a hold on herself. He was a conceited, selfish beast, a bounder, a ... “Why do you not leave today, my lord? The weather is quite acceptable for travel, I think.”

  Hawk regarded her in thoughtful silence. He supposed that a homely, very dowdy female would feel some bitterness about her looks, but this very agile sarcasm? It didn’t set right on her hunched shoulders. Somehow it didn’t fit her nondescript character.

  Frances realized she’d make a mistake. She bit her tongue. Fool, don’t give him reason to question you, to bait you into anger. Give him no reason to stay. She tossed her napkin beside her plate and quickly rose.

  “Perhaps I shall see you before you leave, my lord,” she said, and nearly ran from the room.

  Hawk sat quietly, looking at nothing in particular. What the devil was the matter with her? Hell and damnation, he’d picked her instead of her sisters, given her a title, given her a home, given her consequence. And she detested him. And he did treat her well at night. Didn’t embarrass her or insist upon seeing her naked or demand that she touch him. He decided at that moment that he would leave today.

  But it wasn’t to be.

  Two hours later, Grunyon interrupted him in his bedchamber. “My lord, Otis informs me that you have a visitor. It is Lord Saint Leven.”

  “Good God,” Hawk said blankly. “I wonder what Lyonel is doing here. I thought he was firmly ensconced in London.”

  “I heard him mention to your father, my lord, that he was visiting a great-aunt who lives near Escrick.”

  “Oh yes,” Hawk said, dredging up a bit of memory. “It must be his Great-Aunt Lucia, an old tartar, he told me once. He likes her immensely.”

  He joined his father and Lyonel Ashton in the Smoking Room.

  “Hawk, old fellow,” Lyonel said, coming forward to clap his friend on his shoulder, “you are now a married man. My congratulations. About time, I should say.”

  “You say, Lyonel? You, as I recall, arrived on this earth only one year before I did.”

  “Some of us fellows mature more quickly, Hawk,” said Lyonel, his dark blue eyes twinkling. “Where is your lady wife? I should like to meet his paragon who pulled you into the parson’s mousetrap.”

  Mouse. Hawk felt as if his tongue had become dead meat in his mouth.

  Lyonel frowned at the sudden silence. He heard the marquess clear his throat, but still Hawk stood there like a stupid puppet.

  “Where is Frances, Father?” Hawk said finally.

  “I don’t know,” the marquess said. “I sent word to find her, but no one has yet succeeded.”

  Hawk remembered the awful scene at breakfast and imagined that Frances had indeed escaped.

  “Frances,” Lyonel said. “A very nice name. Who is her family, Hawk?”

  “Her father is the Earl of Ruthven, a Scot. She lived near Loch Lomond until a week ago.”

  Lyonel felt at least a score of questions hovering, but he held himself silent. Not in front of Hawk’s father. There was a mystery here.

  “Brandy, Lyonel?”

  At that moment, Frances slithered into the room. That was the only word for it, Hawk thought, frowning at her. Damnation, she looked ready to be whipped.

  He cleared his throat. “My dear,” he said in his most pleasant voice, “please come in. I should like you to meet one of my best friends, Lyonel Ashton, Earl of Saint Leven. Lyonel, my wife, Frances.”

  Not a clue to his thoughts appeared on Lyonel’s face. “My pleasure, ma‘am,” he said smoothly, and raised Frances’ hand to his lips.

  Lord, Frances thought, staring at the bent head, she had believed Hawk the most handsome man she’d ever seen, but this elegant male creature easily rivaled him. His hair was a rich, thick dark brown, nearly the color of Hawk’s mahogany desk in the estate room.

  When he straightened and smiled down at her, she realized he was even of Hawk’s size. Warily she met his eyes, but saw no distaste in them; indeed, she saw only pleasure and intelligence. She ran her tongue over her suddenly dry mouth, terrified of his perception, and muttered, “Yes, indeed a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  She sent an agonized look toward her father-in-law, and obligingly, the marquess said in a very relieved, quite loud voice, “Let’s have that brandy now.”

  “Excuse me,” Frances said, retreating, “I do not drink brandy, truly, I ...” She quitted the room before anyone could say a word.

  Lyonel said thoughtfully when the marquess handed him the snifter, “Let us drink to your marriage, Hawk.”

  They did.

  It was close to thirty minutes later before the marquess left the two longtime friends alone.

  Lyonel sat back in the comfortable leather chair and stretched his long legs before him. “This is all most interesting, Hawk.”

  “Go to the devil,” Hawk said.

  “Always brief and to the point. I am blessed in my friends.”

  “How is your sainted Great-Aunt Lucia?”

  “She bastes me with her ire as thoroughly as the cook bastes the Christmas ham. She is in rare good form, healthy as a stoat, her tongue whirling faster than your carriage wheels.”

  “I had looked forward to seeing you in London.”

  “Ah. Soon? You will introduce your bride to the ton?”

  “No. Frances stays here, that is, she wishes to stay here, in the country—she is more comfortable here, you know.”

  “I see,” said Lyonel. He waited, but there seemed to be nothing more forthcoming. “I suppose you will confide in me when it pleases you.”

  “There is nothing to confide,” Hawk said.

  “Probably nothing of interest,” Lyonel agreed, his deep voice sounding lazy and bored.

  “How long do you intend to stay?”

  “I have but just arrived, Hawk.”

  Hawk gritted his teeth. “You know what I mean, Lyon!”

  “Ah, now we’re back
to the animal world. My father never approved of that particular nickname, you know. Believed it undignified, not at all worthy of Viscount Beresford. You will recall, old fellow, that that was what I was called before my father’s unfortunate demise last—”

  “It is not a love match, curse you!” Hawk said harshly, breaking into this fascinating blather on Lyon’s antecedents. “You aren’t blind. You met her. You looked at her.”

  Lyonel shot him an odd look, then said mildly, “Then I would suppose that she is a great heiress.”

  “Nary a bit.”

  “Not twenty thousand pounds a year?”

  “Not a bloody sou.”

  “I brought a valise, Hawk. I had intended to spend the night, but if you wish, I shall take to my heels and endure Lucia’s insults. Poor woman, she thought she’d seen the last of me for a while.”

  “Stay. We can return to London together—tomorrow—if it is convenient with your plans.”

  “That will be pleasing, no doubt. I trust, dear boy, that you have sent an announcement of your marriage to the Gazette?”

  “I imagine that my father has done that.”

  “I wonder,” Lyonel said, his voice a lazy drawl, “what the fair Constance will make of it?”

  “I would never have married her,” Hawk said. “Even if I had wanted to, well ...”

  “Yes, I understand. Your Scottish lass. As for your Amalie, she is certain to be devastated.”

  “No, I daresay she won’t be. Why should she be, after all?”

  “It is like that, is it?” Lyonel said easily. “Odd, but I have always believed that when I marry, if I ever find a woman to bear up with me, that I should show my mistress to the door. Of course, Amalie is a charmer ...”

  He paused a moment, seeing Hawk eye him with frank surprise.

  “I’ve said something that your intellect can’t grasp?”

  Hawk said slowly, “I have never believed that any gentleman would forgo his pleasures for the sake of a wife, particularly if the wife in question is merely a ... duty.”

  “Perhaps that is true of many of our acquaintances,” Lyonel agreed. “I imagine, though, that there are some love matches. I hope I shall be so lucky.”

  Hawk said something quite crude.

  “Then a gentleman wouldn’t be inclined to poach elsewhere,” Lyonel finished.

  “Not for a twelvemonth in any case,” Hawk said, his voice as cynical as his raised eyebrow.

  “If that is your belief, my friend, then wouldn’t the same thing apply to a wife? Lady Constance—well, she has a great deal of self-consequence, as well as stunning looks. She is also an accomplished flirt. I am certain her flirting wouldn’t go to the bedchamber until she’d provided an heir for her husband, but then... ?” Lyonel shrugged elaborately. “I suppose you have excellent reason for cynicism. Sometimes I find myself wishing that ... Well, no matter, here I am carrying on like a gabbleseed. Come, old fellow, let me show you my new cattle. My bays will beat your grays to flinders.”

  “And your Great-Aunt Lucia will become mute! You know I got those grays from Kimbell when he went all to pieces, the damned fool. Nothing can beat them.”

  Frances was standing by the window of a small sewing room that faced the drive. She saw the two men stroll companionably toward the stable. Both large powerful men, both filled with all the confidence only a man of title and wealth could possess. But appearances could be deceiving, she knew. She could imagine how the Earl of Saint Leven would treat her if he had to suffer looking at her a second time. Surely he couldn’t hide his true feelings again. But he had looked at her so very oddly.

  Would she have to suffer another night of Hawk’s amorous bouts? Amorous, ha! Husbandly bouts was more like it. Duty bouts, heir bouts, damn him.

  She saw Lord Saint Leven throw back his head and laugh at something her husband said. Had her husband made a jest about her? No, he couldn’t be that great a bounder. She turned away from the small window, her shoulders hunched.

  She pleaded an indisposition that evening and stayed safe in her room.

  Agnes, eyeing her when she brought her a tray, wondered just what this indisposition was. Her mistress was pacing about, looking alternately flushed with anger, then pale as the gravy that swamped the veal on the beautiful gold-edged plate.

  “I will not let him do it, not again,” Frances said aloud to her empty room several hours later. “Enough is enough.”

  It was more than that, she knew. If she stayed and he visited her, she would have to tell him that she was far from pregnant. She would have to tell him about her monthly flow. The consequences of such a confession left her mind blank.

  She molded a fat bolster under the covers of her bed, and made her way to the small sewing room.

  When Hawk quietly entered her bedchamber three hours later, he was more drunk that he cared to admit, but his determination was profound. It took him several moments to realize that the bolster wasn’t a woman. He stared down in the darkness, his hands feeling the damned bolster as if it were a woman’s leg. Then he felt utterly enraged.

  He’d asked nothing of her, damn her! He’d given her everything any woman could possibly want. His sexual demands required but ten minutes of her precious time. And she didn’t have to do anything save lie there like a damned log while he did all the work. He realized vaguely that he’d been through all his logic several times before, but it didn’t matter. He was certain the list of her shortcomings would continue to grow.

  The roar of anger was building in his throat when he realized that Lyonel and his father were in the house. It would cause the most ridiculous scene. He could just hear Lyonel’s lazy drawl. “How very odd, Hawk, old man. You say you mistook a bolster for your wife? She’s hidden from you, you say?”

  He swallowed.

  He would leave her to wallow in her own dowdy stupidity. Selfish, silly twit!

  It didn’t occur to him until he was lying in his own bed, the room spinning dizzily when he closed his eyes, that it was indeed probable that she had unwittingly spared him male embarrassment.

  He felt dead, all of him. Not even a twinge of life.

  Both men left the following morning, each nurturing a hangover that would dog their heels to Nottingham.

  Hawk didn’t bid his wife good-bye. She was nowhere to be found.

  Frances watched their leave-taking from her post in the sewing room. Good riddance, she thought, twitching the lace curtain back into place. Her father-in-law was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs.

  “Good morning, Frances,” he said quite pleasantly.

  “Sir,” she said.

  “Did you sleep well, Frances, in your hidey-hole?”

  How did he know?

  She elevated her chin. “Yes, sir, indeed I did.”

  “Hawk is gone, Lyonel with him.”

  “Yes, I watched them leave.”

  “And that is why you finally are showing yourself?”

  “I am hungry.”

  “And something of a coward also. Come here a moment, my dear. I have something to show you.”

  Frances shot him a wary look, but obligingly trailed after him into the library. He quietly closed the door, then turned to face her. “Look at this, Frances.”

  She took the small miniature from his outstretched hand. She stared down into her smiling face.

  “My father ... Why did he send you this? I assume he did send you this.”

  “Yes, he did,” said the marquess. “He hoped I would be seeing a painting of my future daughter-in-law. He devoutly hoped that Hawk would select her.” He pointed at the lovely happy face. “But instead my son selected you. Now, don’t mistake me, Frances, I am not a doddering old fool and I know well enough why Hawk picked you over your sisters. He is incapable of lying to me. His cheek always twitched whenever he tried as a boy. He hasn’t tried as a man. No, my dear, my question is: why your elaborate charade? I gather that Hawk met you as you are now.”

  Frances, at the end
of her tether, waved her fist at him and shouted, “It is all your fault! If you hadn’t been so foolish as to get yourself captured by bandits, and rescued by my damnable father, none of of this would have happened! I didn’t want to marry the Earl of Rothermere. I didn’t want to leave Kilbracken or Scotland. I didn’t want your precious son to even look at me!”

  “It appears that he hasn‘t—looked at you, that is,” the marquess said mildly, pleased by this very Ruthven show of passion. “I begin to understand you, Frances. But I still wonder why you simply don’t show your true self when he asked you to marry him.”

  “He left, curse him! He ran away as quickly as he could for Glasgow. I told my father I wouldn’t have him, but my father said that I had no choice. It was all a matter of money, as you well know, since you’re the one providing that cursed ten thousand pounds!”

  The marquess absently rubbed his chin. What an interesting and amusing coil this was. “I gather, then, my dear, that you maintained the facade in order to ... nauseate Hawk enough so that he would leave you quickly.”

  “Exactly,” she said in an acid voice. “And it worked.” Suddenly she crumpled, lowered her face in her hands, and began to sob.

  “Frances!”

  “Oh, be quiet,” she cried, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. “He has indeed left and here I am stuck in a foreign country, surrounded by servants who believe me an utter fool and unworthy of my vaunted new position, and I hate it! There is no beautiful loch, no heather, no ... Oh, I don’t know what to do!”

  “Of course you do, my dear,” he said very gently.

  Frances pulled off the offending spectacles and glared at him.

  “Yes, that is a start.”

  “Well?” she demanded.

  “You, my dear Frances, are the Countess of Rothermere. There is no one to gainsay you, not a mother nor a father. You are mistress here. This is your home. These are your servants. You can, as a matter of fact, do exactly as you please.”

  She stared at him a moment, his very calm words sinking into her befuddled brain.

  She said very slowly, her brow nit in thought, “You are quite right. I can do exactly as I please, can I not?”